| | 1 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Ethelyn's mistake  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | THERE was a sweet odor of clover blossoms in the
early morning air, and the dew stood in great
drops upon the summer flowers, and dripped
from the foliage of the elm trees which skirted the village
common. There was a cloud of mist upon the meadows,
and the windings of the river could be distinctly traced by
the white fog which curled above it. But the fog and the
mists were rolling away as the warm June sun came over
the eastern hills, and here and there signs of life began to
be visible in the little New England town of Chicopee,
where our story opens. The mechanics who worked in the
large shoe-shop half way down Cottage Row had been up
an hour or more, while the hissing of the steam which carried
the huge manufactory had been heard since the first
robin peeped from its nest in the alders by the running
brook; but higher up, on Bellevue street, where the old
inhabitants lived, everything was quiet, and the loamy
road, moist and damp with the dews of the previous night,
was as yet unbroken by the foot of man or rut of passing
wheel. The people who lived there,—the Mumfords, and
the Beechers, and the Grangers, and the Thorns,—did not
belong to the working class. They held stocks in railroads
and banks, and mortgages on farms, and could afford to
sleep after the shrill whistle from the manufactory had
wakened the echoes of the distant hills and sounded across
the waters of Pordunk Pond. Only one dwelling showed
signs of life, and that the large square building, shaded in
front with elms and ornamented at the side with a luxuriant
queen of the prairie, whose blossoms were turning their
blushing faces to the rising sun. This was the Bigelow
house, the joint property of Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, née
Sophia Bigelow, who lived in Boston, and her sister, Miss
Barbara Bigelow, the quaintest and kindest-hearted woman
who ever bore the sobriquet of an old maid, and was aunt
to everybody. She was awake long before the whistle had
sounded across the river and along the meadow lands; and
just as the robin, whose nest for four summers had been
under the eaves where neither boy nor cat could reach it,
brought the first worm to its clamorous young, she pushed
the fringed curtain from her open window, and with her
broad frilled cap still on her head, stood for a moment looking
out upon the morning as it crept up the eastern sky. “Dear Ethie—I reckon mother is right, after all. She
generally is, you know, so we may as well be resigned,
and believe it wicked for cousins to marry each other.
Of course I can never like Nettie as I have liked you, and
I feel a twinge every time I remember the dear old times.
But what must be must, and there's no use fretting. Do
you remember old Colonel Markham's nephew, from out
West,—the one who wore the short pants and the rusty
crape on his hat when he visited his uncle in Chicopee,
some years ago? I mean the chap who helped you over
the fence the time you stole the colonel's apples. He has
become a member of Congress, and quite a big gun for the
West; so, at least, mother thinks. He called on her to-day
with a message from Mrs. Woodhull, but I did not see
him. He goes up to Chicopee to-morrow, I believe. He
is looking for a wife, they say, and mother thinks it would
be a good match for you, as you could go to Washington
next winter and queen it over them all. But don't, Ethie,
don't, for thunder's sake! It fairly makes me faint to
think of you belonging to another, even though you may
never belong to me.—Yours always, “Darling Ethie:—You must not think strange if I do
not come to you this morning, for I am suffering from one
of my blinding headaches, and can scarcely see to write
you this. I shall be better by night. “It does not matter, as you would only be in the way,
and I have something of a headache too. “You will find my Ethie in some respects a spoiled
child,” she wrote, “but it is more my fault than hers. I
have loved her so much, and petted her so much, that I
doubt if she knows what a harsh word or cross look means.
She has been carefully and delicately brought up, but has
repaid me well for all my pains by her tender love. Please,
dear Mrs. Markham, be very, very kind to her, and you
will greatly oblige, “My own Darling Ethie:—Don't fail to be there
to-night, and if possible leave the `old maid' at home, and
come alone. We shall have so much better time. Your
devoted “Dear cousin,” he wrote, “business for a Boston firm
has brought me to Camden, where they have had debts
standing out. Through the influence of Harry Clifford,
who was a college chum of mine, I have an invitation to
Mrs. Miller's, where I hope to meet yourself and husband.
I should call to-day, but I know just how busy you must be
with your costume, which I suppose you wish to keep incog.,
even from me. I shall know you, though, at once. See
if I do not. Wishing to be remembered to the Judge, I
am, yours truly, RICHARD: I am going away from you forever,
and when you recall the words you spoke to me
last night, and the deep humiliation you put
upon me, you will readily understand that I go because we
cannot live together any longer as man and wife. You
said things to me, Richard, which women find hard to forgive,
and which they never can forget. I did not deserve
that you should treat me so, for, bad as I may have been
in other respects, I am innocent of the worst thing you
alleged against me, and which seemed to excite you so
much. Until I heard it from you, I did not know Frank
Van Buren was within a thousand miles of Camden. The
note from him which I leave with this letter, and which
you will remember was brought to the door by a servant,
who said it had been mislaid and forgotten, will prove that
I tell you truly. The other note which you found, and
which must have fallen from the box where I kept it, was
written years ago, when I was almost a little girl, with no
thought that I ever could be the humbled, wretched creature
I am now. “Dear, darling Andy:—If all the world were as good,
and kind, and true as you, I should not be writing this
letter, with my arrangements made for flight. Richard will
tell you why I go. It would take me too long. I have
been very unhappy here, though none of my wretchedness
has been caused by you. Dear Andy, if I could tell you
how much I love you, and how sorry I am to fall in your
opinion, as I surely shall when you hear what has happened.
Do not hate me, Andy, and sometimes when you
pray, remember Ethie, won't you? She needs your prayers
so much, for she cannot pray herself. I do not want to be
wholly bad,—do not want to be lost forever; and I have
faith that God will hear you. The beautiful consistency of
your everyday life and your simple trust have been powerful
sermons to me, convincing me that there is a reality in
the religion you profess. Go on, Andy, as you have begun,
and may the God whom I am not worthy to name, bless
you, and keep you, and give you every possible good. In
fancy I wind my arms around your neck, and kiss your
dear, kind face, as with tears I write you my good-by. “I do not know whether you found your wife at Mrs.
Amsden's or not; but I take the liberty of telling you that
Frank Van Buren has returned, and solemnly affirms that
if Mrs. Markham was on board the train which left here on
the 17th, he did not know it. Neither did he see her at
all when in Camden. He called on his way to the depot
that night, and was told she was out. Excuse my writing
you this. If your wife has not come back, it will remove
a painful doubt; and if she has, please burn this and forget
it.—Yours, “Dear Andy—I wish I could tell you how much I love
you, and how sorry I am to fall in your good opinion, as I
surely shall when you hear what has happened. Do not
hate me, Andy; and sometimes, when you pray, remember
Ethie, won't you?” “Miss Melinda Jones: Dear Madam—We found the
letters Ethie writ, one to me and one to Dick, and Dick's
was too much for him. He lies like a punk of wood, makin'
a moanin' noise, and talkin' such queer things, that I guess
you or somebody or'to come and see to him. I send to
you because there's no nonsense about you, and you are
made of the right kind of stuff. “My Darling Andy:—I know you have not forgotten
me, and I am superstitious enough to fancy that you are
with me in spirit constantly. I do not know why I am
writing this to you, but something impels me to do it, and
tell you that I am well. I cannot say happy yet, for the
sundering of every earthly relation made too deep a wound
for me not to feel the pain for months and may be years.
I have employment, though,—constant employment,—and
that helps me to bear, and keeps me from dwelling too much
upon the past. “There's a strange woman sick here. Please come home. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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